11. Chapter 11
After a few days of hibernation, I can’t take it anymore and decide I need to get out of the damn apartment, so I slip on sneakers and, still wearing black yoga pants that I haven’t taken off in two days, and a Kings of Leon concert T-shirt, I venture out into the world.
I find myself on the street where Jerome King was shot, trying to remember that day. I can picture the clustering of cops, the white sheet draped over his body on the grass, the bystanders pressing into the yellow caution tape that cordoned off the area.
I try to remember the moments and hours after the shooting, and how I came upon Celia Stewart. She told me she lived across the street from where the shooting took place. Standing on the street now and looking at the modest Colonial with dirty white siding, a crooked shutter hanging from the far left window and crinkled blinds covering the insides of the windows, I really don’t want to go knock on the front door.
But I do.
I knock a few times, wait, and then knock some more. Louder this time. I can hear movement inside; I assume the sound of someone slowly making their way closer to the door. After what sounds like the unlocking of more than one deadbolt, the door creaks open a few inches, but the chain lock remains intact.
The face of a middle-aged woman peers around the door. She is petite and several inches shorter than me. She has day-old makeup on her puffy face and her hair is falling out of a knot on the top of her head. Her arms are crossed around her middle, holding a bulky sweater closed.
“Can I help you?” she asks, and her voice surprises me. It’s soft. Kind. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to someone who looks like she’s been partying like it’s 1999 all night long. She stares at me for a beat, waiting for me to respond.
“Yes, sorry! Um, is this … Does Celia Stewart live here?” I ask.
She looks genuinely confused as she slowly shakes her head side to side and curves her lips downward.
“Huh.” I look around, not sure what I am looking for. “About three months ago I talked to her, and she said she lived here.”
The woman unwraps her arms, places one hand on the door, resting the other on her hip. Her sweater falls open, revealing a long sleep shirt with Charlie Brown characters on it.
“We moved in about a month ago. I don’t know anything about the previous tenants,” she says politely.
“We?” I ask.
She looks at me with a that’s none of your business face, but then replies, “My boyfriend and I.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day. Sorry to bother you.”
I start to turn away as she closes the door, but then I hear the chain rustle and the door reopens, wider this time.
“But if she was the person living here before us,” the woman continues, “she left some goods behind.”
I pull my brows together.
This time it’s her who looks around, then she re-wraps her sweater around her body and re-folds her arms. “We found drugs stashed in a couple places throughout the house. In the back of the fridge, under a squeaky floorboard, even in the water tank behind the toilet. Looked like crystal meth.”
I glance down, and she answers my unspoken question.
“I tend bar downtown, along with Pete, my boyfriend. We’ve both been behind the pine for a lot of years. We’ve seen it all. We know what that shit looks like. And, for the record, we stay away from it.” Then she gives a half-laugh and shrugs. “We prefer booze.”
Figuring there is nothing more this woman can do for me, and thankful for her insight, I start to back up. “Thanks again for your time.”
I begin heading down the steps but stop when she blurts out one last piece of information. “Try the shelters.” I look at her, head cocked to the side.
“The shelters,” she says. “If this person you’re looking for is into what I think she is, she’s probably spent all her rent money on blow. I’d try the homeless shelters downtown.”
I ponder that for a moment. “Thanks again.”
“Bring some Lysol,” I hear her say as she backs into the house. “Those places are filthy.”
There are a few shelters in the city and it takes me time to locate them. I had to go through the Department of Social Services, which is about as user-friendly as a chop saw without the safety engaged.
I finally found an address, and here I am at one of the sites. But I haven’t had any luck.
Another shelter isn’t too far from this one, so I start heading down the street in that general direction. When I get there, I am equally as surprised to learn it isn’t hard to gain access. I just walk right in. I walk up and down the rows of cots, having no luck.
Just as I am about to call the whole mission a wash, someone catches my eye. Entering the room of the gymnasium with only a grocery bag holding a few items, is a young pale woman. She has the same medium build and the same wavy, dark brown hair down to her shoulders. But I’m not sure it’s her.
I make my way to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She startles a bit when I speak. “Celia? Celia Stewart?”
She looks up at me, then darts her eyes down and quickly shakes her head. “No, sorry. You’re mistaken.”
But I know I’m not. “You used to live on State Street?”
Her eyes dart back up to mine. “No, sorry,” she repeats, and starts to back away.
“Jerome King,” I say. And for some reason I expect that to garner a reaction from her, but it doesn’t. “Wait,” I say louder, this time reaching out for her arm.
She whips around and pulls her arm from my grasp.
“Sorry! I’m sorry,” I say, letting go immediately. “Look, I talked to you about three months ago after a drug bust downtown. A kid was shot and killed, Jerome King.”
I can tell she recalls our encounter, but she doesn’t look impressed. In fact, now that I am looking at her close up, I think she might be a little strung out. Her eyes aren’t necessarily bloodshot, but a little glossy. She has a sheen to her face and along her hairline. Not a full-blown sweat, but she looks a little clammy. And she definitely has the shakes.
“Look, I’m not here to stir up shit, and everything here is off the record. I’m here for my own sake,” I say.
Celia nods toward a nearby cot, we walk over and she tosses the grocery bag on it, claiming the spot as hers. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me finally. “What do you want to know?”
“You had said Jerome was familiar around the neighborhood? That he was regularly seen going in and out of that raided drug house? Was that honestly the truth?”
Arms still crossed, she half-cocks her head to the side and looks up at me with brows furrowed. “Why are you asking me about Jerome?”
It’s my turn to cross my arms. “His mother claims he was innocent. She’s taking legal action against the city. And things don’t all add up. Paramedics say there were no drugs found on him, although that’s not what the police report stated. I’m just wondering if you have any insight.”
She huffs out a single laugh and runs her hands over her unruly hair, gathering it to the side before releasing it. “No offense, but you’re pretty stupid for a smart woman.”
“None taken. But what the hell does that mean?”
“Aside from the cops, nobody, and I mean nobody, finds drugs on a dead body and just leaves them there. That boy definitely had drugs on him. If that wasn’t in the police report, then his buddies or even the paramedics, or anybody who got to his body first, lifted them.”
I narrow my eyes at her, processing.
“Look, not only had I seen him go into and out of that house, but I had seen him in that house,” she says, pointing a finger down toward the floor to drive her point home. “Yeah, I also was a frequent flier at that house. When I talked to you, I had been clean for, well, I don’t know exactly. Maybe a few months. Obviously, that didn’t last.” She looks down and around, nervous.
“Are you suggesting someone took the drugs off Jerome before he was transported to the hospital?”
“Someone took the drugs either before he was on the stretcher, before he was in the ambulance, while he was in the ambulance, while he was in the hospital … Hell, maybe he was in the morgue. All I know is there was never a time that boy didn’t have drugs on him.”
Well, hell, now I am really getting frustrated. I thought I was going to hear Celia say she lied.
“Look,” she starts up again. “I’m not saying Jerome wasn’t a nice kid. He was. I never saw him with a weapon. I never saw him get into a fight. He was definitely in over his head. Just like me. But his dad was MIA, his mom was working a lot, and I didn’t even realize he had a brother, so I’m not sure what the relationship was there, but he definitely had shit going on. And all it takes is a stupid moment of weakness and sometimes that’s it. You’re hooked. I think that was Jerome.”
I uncross my arms and place my hands on my hips. I take another look around the makeshift shelter, which is starting to fill up.
“Thanks,” I say. “For talking to me again.”
“Sorry you didn’t hear what you hoped to hear.”
Celia seems nice, and I suddenly feel bad leaving her here. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask. “Can I, oh, I don’t know, buy you dinner or something? Or some clothes, maybe?” I am hesitant to give her money.
She smiles and waves me away. “Don’t need your money,” she says. “But do me one favor?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t come looking for me anymore.”
Trying not to be offended, I nod my head.
“Bye, Reporter Lady.”
“Bye, Celia.” I offer my hand, and we shake.
I know my next move is going to be awkward, and I’d rather drag myself across hot coals than do it but, dammit, I need answers.
I’m standing on the street when I pull out my phone and start to type a text to Knox, but it is long and making no sense and I decide, fuck it, I’ll just call him. His brother is a part-time volunteer EMT and may be able to give me some information I need.
It rings several times, and I am about to hang up, figuring he’s avoiding talking to me, when Knox answers. “Lizzie?” he sounds startled.
“Yeah. Hi.” If it’s possible to sound pathetic in just two words, I do. “If it’s a bad time I can call back.”
“No, no. I just got in the truck and had to fish my phone out of my pocket. What’s up?”
“I’m kind of calling to ask for a favor.”
“Okayyyy.” His response is a little questionable, and it breaks my heart. There was a time we would have done anything for each other.
“So, there’s a long back story, but essentially what I’m hoping is, if I find out which ambulance company responded to the Jerome King shooting a while back, do you think you can ask Bram to find out the names of the paramedics who arrived at the scene?”
There is a moment of silence, and I am about to say his name to make sure I didn’t lose him, but then he speaks up. “Lizzie, I already know who the first responders were.”
“You do?”
“You really don’t remember? I told you. Jerome was brought to the hospital during Bram’s shift. He wasn’t one of the drivers, but he remembers the call coming in … Lizzie?” It’s his turn to make sure I am still on the line.
“Yeah, sorry. Shit, I don’t remember anything, apparently.”
Another beat of silence.
“Yeah, it was Jimmy and Sanders from EMStar.”
“Any chance he could put me in touch with them?”
“You’d probably have better luck just swinging by the headquarters and asking when they’re next on shift,” he says.
That works for me. I know where headquarters is. “OK, great. Thanks. I guess that’s all—”
“Lizzie?”
I suck in a breath. “Yeah, Knox?”
There is another moment of silence. “You OK? You seem a little, I dunno, off.”
Well, my marriage is falling apart, and my job is on the line.
“You can call me for anything, you know that, right?” he says.
“Um, yeah.”
Silence.
“My fucking back is killing me from sleeping on the pullout couch,” he blurts out, and I know he’s trying to lighten the mood. “I know you remember what it’s like sleeping on that thing. Or, well, I guess we didn’t do much sleeping …”
I smile, telling myself it’s because he is in pain, and not from the memories of us trying to silently have sex on his dad’s pullout couch, then close my eyes at the memories.
“Anyway …” he continues.
“Anyway …” I reply.
After a beat, I end the call. Because it hurts too much to remember loving him.